Admission
by Begriffsschrift
Summary: Because the truth can be downright hilarious and horrifying sometimes. L/Kira/L; be warned for angst and Crazy!Light.


**Title:** Admission  
**Pairing: **Evident  
**Rating:** Worksafe  
**Warnings:** Unbeta'dness, rusty writing in the wee hours of the morning, Crazy!Light + racing, disjointed thought passages, too many em-dashes, and a helluva lot of formatting.  
**Disclaimer:** ...We all know, right?

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******Admission**

He'd had many chances. After all, Kira was more than well versed at engineering the perfect plan and the perfect timing. But each time, the words tasted sour in his mouth, so he didn't say anything at all.

At first, he dismissed the issue of his evasiveness as his "loyalty to his own beliefs" (because God didn't deal with this sort of frivolous thing, right?). But, as he paced around the bathroom stall on his extraneous restroom break muttering to himself, he was truly starting to come to terms with the unattractive realization that, maybe—maybe he was using his beliefs as an excuse to be evasive.

And that maybe, even as God, he had become a coward. A love-struck coward, at that.

"This is fucking ridiculous."

He wanted to laugh. Kira pulled at his hair, trying to release some of the tension building in his temples. When did creating the ideal world become such a chore? Where did the rush of domination go? It was no longer interesting—just taxing and trivial trying to force events and people to his will. He hated to even think it, but it was not too different from the banality of his school days before the Death Note. He had just managed to take the pettiness to a worldwide scale, and even with all his work (and now his busywork), his disgust with humanity had not abated. In all truth, it had possibly gotten worse.

Of course, to his abysmal luck (or Fate's particularly dark humor, though he refused to believe such a thing as Fate existed), the minute he began to doubt his mission to salvage the human race, he just HAD to develop _feelings_—he shuddered—towards his archenemy in this Holy War of politics. And if there was anything he couldn't rationalize himself out of, it was his own feelings.

He wouldn't admit it or even let the thought form within the intimate confines of his own mind, but such a lack of control was downright _terrifying_. He did acknowledge, though, that it was having an adverse affect on his human body—which Kira had long ago accepted as a legitimate limit to his Godly capacities as the Death Note proved to be. But even though he had gotten used to (even tired of) the level of diligence and paranoia that came with maintaining PR with Kira's executions while doubling as a member of the task force to _find_ Kira, this sudden emotional volatility created a balancing act that was simply too much for his body. His cortisol levels had shot through the roof—it was harder to sleep, harder to eat with all the nausea. He could feel his health plummeting, and everyone was concerned—hell, L was concerned, somehow exuding an aura of care from his horribly blank, exotic eyes in ways that made his heart jump inappropriately—

And he was so tired—he just wanted to sleep. At this rate, he could fall into a fit of psychosis and render all his judgment null. God had—_he_ had—to become desperate. He even planned to admit his feelings to L as Light. Not the whole truth, but anything—_anything_ to lessen the weight of the stressors on his system. And _obviously_, at such a time, his verbose mouth had to become tight-lipped and _shy_, of all things. Fucking silly, it was—he took lives as a vocation!

He groaned. His hands had chronic tremors with all the adrenaline, and he could no longer use coffee to try to ward off the malapropos bouts of exhaustion for risk of making them worse (he didn't need any more attention to tend to daily, thank you).

And now he was crying. He knew why, and he didn't want to; he felt pathetic with his face in his hands in the _bathroom stall_, like those archetypal daytime TV dramas, which he was _appalled_ to find himself alluding to, let alone relating to; he just wanted to sleep, be happy, tell the truth, smell the roses—just anything at this point. His nerves felt like they were frayed at the ends, and his hackles were too overused to even respond when L entered the lavatory—his footsteps far too loud for his barefooted-ness, probably because, over-stimulated, he was seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking hundreds of miles per minute and—

"Light-kun."

—the bastard probably didn't need to use the restroom at all, and came because he was fucking _worried_, because _who knew _how long he has been in there; and who knew whether it was because of courage or his apparent weakness in his constitution, but he opened the door, not even bothering to hide the large swipes he took to dry his wet eyes before this man; and he asks—

"Can I tell you something?"

L looked at him calculatingly, in a way that made it ambiguous as to whether he was disturbed or amused with the inconsistencies in his behavior. He responded slowly, measuredly, in a monotone, testing the waters.

"Okay. If it would help Light-kun sleep at night."

Maybe L could have accounted for this response—knowing him, it was possible—but Kira broke down into a guffaw, clutching at his stomach and gasping for breath. The irony for him to say that! Or maybe it wasn't irony at all, because concealer did nothing to disguise the bags under his eyes before L's investigative prowess. _Certainly_, it would take an insomniac to know an insomniac! Perhaps it was just the extraordinary graveness of it all that made him keep laughing. He eventually set a hand down on L's shoulder to steady himself, and the man appeared nonplussed—either at the touch or his (what had to be a) crazed smile and the genuine humor in his eyes.

"Okay—Ahaa haaha—okay—now it's my turn to be funny. I'm _Kira_." He dissolved into giggles. "I got _bored_—hic—of my job. And guess what—here's the cherry on top—I freaking love you, you know?" Kira, Light, God, human—whatever he was at this point—was incoherent and in stitches on this floor, pounding his fist on the linoleum as he struggled to get air into his lungs through the mirth. Where did his restraint go? The words had come so easily—not sour, just…tastleless. Which, for no reason, made him laugh harder.

L just stood there, trying not to find the laugh contagious in the face of a horrific truth confirmed.

"Are you inebriated?"

"Fuck no, just crazy. 'Crazy for _you_!' Just come gimme a hug, okay?" His speech pitched with the peals of his laughter, and he was trembling.

L was at a loss, so he did the only thing he could think of doing—he hugged that… boy, shaking in his arms with laughter or grief (or something in the grey space between), and paged Watari to come with sedation.

**...Fin...  
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A/N: Don't ask. I don't even know what I feel about this. It was pulled out of my ass.


End file.
